The rumors spread through the Lower City of Olgard like wildfire, fanned by paid whisperers and those who thrived on chaos. What began as an uneasy murmur about the guards’ actions in Butchers’ Square soon swelled into a roaring tide of outrage—a tempest fueled by generations of oppression. To the poor crammed within Olgard’s shadowed alleys, it was no longer mere brutality—it was massacre, a crime etched not just in blood but in the marrow-deep memory of their suffering. The seeds of resentment found fertile ground here, where hatred for the wealthy elite and their enforcers had long been cultivated, watered by neglect and despair.
Even in calmer times, patrols moved through these streets with wary eyes and clenched fists, knowing they were tolerated at best. Now, after the events in the square, their presence felt less like protection and more like oppression—a mailed gauntlet squeezing tighter around throats already raw from hunger and desperation. A week of distrust sown among the people had ripened into something darker, angrier. It was time to escalate.
The night air hung heavy with dampness as Edmer led his men toward the district guardhouse, its silhouette looming against the faint glow of distant lanterns like a monolith of authority waiting to be toppled. Once a militia warehouse, the building had served as a storehouse for weapons and supplies meant to arm local levies in times of war. But peace had stretched on year after unbroken year, and the cost of maintaining such structures grew burdensome. So, the rulers of Olgard devised a solution: transform the old network of warehouses into barracks and guardhouses, birthing a professional Guards’ Corps tasked with defending both against external threats and internal unrest—all under one efficient budget.
Now, the guardhouse stood as a symbol of that authority, its stone walls cold and unyielding beneath the moonlight. Converted from storage depots to barracks and prisons, it housed criminals, stored arms, and quartered soldiers—all roles intertwined like threads in a tapestry of control. For Edmer, this place represented not only power but vulnerability—the kind that could be exploited. His boots scuffed softly against the cobblestones as he approached, each step deliberate, measured. Around him, his companions moved like shadows, their faces obscured by hoods, their breaths shallow clouds vanishing into the chill.
With a swing of the war hammer, door joints splintered, sending shards of wood flying into the night like shrapnel. The guards inside barely had time to reach for their weapons before crossbow bolts followed, striking unprepared defenders with merciless precision. A few were lucky enough to survive the first volley unscathed, retreating into the depths of the guardhouse, covering their backs with hastily strapped shields. Edmer’s men pursued, drawn swords glistening in the flickering torchlight that danced across the walls. Edmer himself stepped into the carnage behind them, his expression unreadable, his heart pounding with a mixture of exhilaration and dread.
It was a massacre. Corpses littered the room—fallen from chairs, sprawled on beds, slumped over tables still bearing remnants of interrupted meals. Blood pooled on wooden surfaces, mingling with spilled ale and the scattered dice of an unfinished game. Cries of the wounded filled the cold night air, desperate pleas for mercy that went unanswered.
In the corridors of the guardhouse, the gang encountered their first organized resistance. Two guardsmen, armed with shields and swords, blocked the passage, using the narrowness of the space to negate the numerical advantage of Edmer’s men.
“Stay close,” Ryn muttered to Mattias, his voice low but steady. “We take them together.”
Mattias nodded, though his grin betrayed a reckless confidence. He lunged at the right guard, forcing him to retreat behind his shield. The confined space limited the defender’s movements; his sword scraped uselessly against the wall. Mattias seized the opportunity, closing the distance and driving a knife deep into the guard’s unarmored leg. The man screamed, his weapon faltering in his grip, and a quick strike to the neck silenced him forever.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
The remaining guard, now outflanked and outnumbered, tried to hold his ground but succumbed to the relentless barrage from both Mattias and Ryn. Ryn’s blade plunged into his chest, pinning him against the wall. The path was clear.
In the next room, they lost Mattias. Drunk on triumph, his bloodlust unchecked, he charged recklessly through an ajar door, only to be met with two crossbow bolts fired point-blank into his chest. He collapsed like a sack of grain, his body trampled by his brothers-in-arms rushing forward to engage the defenders. More bolts flew, grazing flesh in hurried aim, but failing to stem the tide.
This was the weapons’ storage—the best place to mount a defense in the entire building. The defenders wielded whatever they could grab—swords, halberds, truncheons—with grim determination. They fought valiantly but were doomed from the start. Their numbers were too few to form a cohesive line, and every man was forced to watch his own flanks. In contrast, Edmer’s men controlled the battlefield freely, attacking in pairs, shielding each other while isolating their prey. Every mistake made by the defenders was fatal, and they began to fall, one by one, freeing their attackers to press the assault further.
Ryn dispatched the man who had killed Mattias with a brutal thrust, then turned immediately to flank another guard, his movements fluid and predatory. His sword flashed in his hands, claiming life after life.
An eerie silence fell as the last of the guards lost his life. Thugs never had any respect for the dead, and coordinated looting began almost immediately. Weapons, armor, uniforms, supplies—they stripped the room bare, leaving behind nothing but scattered ash and broken dreams. Yet even as they worked, the metallic tang of blood clung to the air, thick and oppressive, a constant reminder of the cost of their victory. Each item taken felt less like spoils of war and more like fragments of lives now extinguished, echoes of men who once believed themselves safe within these walls.
Edmer moved toward the detention cells, his boots crunching over shattered wood and discarded tools of oppression. The prisoners huddled in their cages like animals cornered by hunters, their eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. Some shrank back as he approached, while others watched him with wary curiosity. From the keyring of a fallen guard, he selected the iron key, its surface slick with drying blood. Unlocking the first cell, he stepped aside, allowing the occupants to make their choice: flee or fight.
“Fear not,” he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him. “We share the same enemy—the same masters who cage you here and rule with iron fists. You can leave now, disappear into the night, or you can join us. Fight alongside us, and let them know that the streets belong not to the Guards' Corps, but to the people.”
His words hung in the air, heavy with promise and peril. A few hesitated no longer, bolting past him without a second glance. Others lingered, weighing the risks, until finally, a handful stepped forward, their faces set with resolve. Not all chose to stay, but those who did brought with them a quiet strength—a shared understanding of what it meant to lose everything and still rise again.
As the group prepared to exit, Edmer paused near the banner of the Guards' Corps, its emblem of authority mocking him from the wall. With deliberate intent, he tore it down, the fabric ripping with a sound that seemed to reverberate through the room like a challenge thrown at unseen ears. Tossing it onto a pile of kindling scavenged from the storeroom, he struck a spark with a flint. Flames leapt upward, consuming the symbol of tyranny with voracious hunger. The firelight danced across the faces of his followers, casting shadows that wavered between hope and despair.
The blaze grew, spreading quickly through the dry timber and oiled leather of the guardhouse. Within moments, the structure groaned under the weight of its own destruction, beams cracking and collapsing as the inferno consumed it whole. Smoke billowed into the night sky, a dark cloud marking the beginning of something new—or perhaps the continuation of an ancient struggle. Standing outside amidst the chaos, Edmer gazed upon the flames, feeling their heat sear his skin and ignite something deeper within him.